


All That I Want

by Griffy (honklust)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Achievement Hunter Heists, Biting, Blood, Edging, Fake AH Crew, Flowery Descriptions of two boys looking at each other in a hotel room, Hotels, Incredibly light mentions of past trauma, M/M, Marking, No actual smut but.... maybe later!, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Top Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 01:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honklust/pseuds/Griffy
Summary: Gavin and Michael are sharing a hotel room the morning before a heist. Michael gets a little possessive.





	All That I Want

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really anything but Michael and Gavin waxing poetic about each other. It was mostly just a warm-up but hey, we always need more Mavin, right? There's not any ACTUAL fucking in this fic but I'll probably do a follow-up sometime cuz I love the setting lol
> 
> There is VERY MINOR reference to past trauma as well as descriptions of violence (all of it's just being remembered, though.) so please proceed with caution.

It’s barely morning, as far as Michael’s concerned. The sunlight filtering through the blinds is a hazy shade of grey, like an old bruise, and it settles a kind of softness over everything. As much as he doesn’t love being up this early, the morning air sort of makes it worth it. Everything seems hewn of its edges like this.

Gavin’s sitting on the end of the bed they’d both slept in (with varying degrees of success), tugging on a sock over the curve of his ankle bone. He’s quiet in the morning, actually – quieter than Michael had expected, but with Gavin, there wasn’t any predicting him. His hair is sticking up in uneven spikes, a cowlick having formed at the back of his head, bangs plastered down against his forehead.

Michael paces around the room in front of him, shuffling back and forth from his suitcase to the shitty wooden hotel table that is currently laden with weaponry. There’s a neat pile of C4 sitting there, like a Christmas present. It makes his heart flutter when he looks at it – that untapped potential. He’s double checking that they have everything they need for the heist, that Gavin didn’t forget to pack anything important.

After a long, lazy moment, Gavin raises his head, focuses on the back-and-forth of Michael’s body. All kinetic energy. He likes being up early – always been a bit of a morning person – and with Michael here, it’s even better. The chance to see how he acted in the morning was exciting, just another glimpse into Mogar’s brain, another note for his mental write-up.

Besides, he liked his presence. It made the hotel room feel less lonely, stopped any uncomfortable memories from cropping back up. Michael was all warm, constant motion, lolling back and forth across the dirty carpet like a tiny little sun in motion. It was like he was cutting through the haze just by being there. That was lovely. He could get used to it.

“Hey, idiot.” Michael stopped, one hand on the corner of his hard-shell luggage. He wasn’t looking at Gavin, his dark eyes focused somewhere in the nothingness between himself and the pile of clothes he was staring at. “Did you bring your fucking USB?”

In the yellow light from the wall lamp, Michael’s curls are illuminated in gold, like a halo. Gavin wishes he could take a picture of him. He wishes he could take a million pictures of him, commit them all to memory, stuff them down in the quiet part of himself that was already overflowing with thoughts of him. He wishes he could store Michael there, in the space inside his heart, beneath the veneer he maintained.

“Wot?” He says. His voice is still thick with sleep, but he sounds hazy if anything. Unperturbed.

“I _said _did you remember to bring the fuckin’ USB thingy you needed.” Michael turns to him now, the lines of his face already fully set in preparation for calling Gavin an idiot, for tossing the whole Heist, for calling Geoff and brown-nosing him so he didn’t take the fall for Gavin’s fuck up.

Gavin smiles, all teeth, and produces a slender black piece of plastic from the pocket of his flat-front shorts. “Got it, boi! C’mon now, have a little faith in me.”

Michael’s grumpiness doesn’t hurt his feelings. Michael hasn’t hurt his feelings in a long, long time.

When they’d first met, that had been all their relationship was founded on, hadn’t it? Who could be crueler, who could dig deeper. Who could kill who first.

It still makes Gavin’s heart sing when he thinks about that – thinks about all the progress they’ve made.

He tries not to think too hard about his life before the Fakes, about the times when he and Michael were intersecting dots out on the street, grinding together with teeth and knuckles, working each other to the bone. It had all just been stress. Stress and trauma and a desperation to be known, a desperation that neither of them were willing to address outside of the feeling of bashing each other’s heads into the concrete.

Nah. Nothing Michael said to him now would ever be _actually _cruel. He could call him an idiot and a bitch and a stinky boy all day long and Gavin would be able to smile and laugh and playfully whine right back, fully content in the knowledge that it was all bark and no bite. He’d felt the bite before, felt the fangs in Michael’s mouth, felt him aim for the kill.

But now wasn’t the time to think about that. The past was the past and, as far as he was concerned, none of it really mattered anymore. They’d had their talks. They’d done their working-out. Now feelings didn’t need to be discussed. The messy business was behind them.

Michael’s talking to him, saying something about how Gavin’s still a stinky little bitch, and Gavin wants to listen but he can’t focus. It’s too early, his brain’s still shaking off the sleep, and he’s busy looking at the shallow, healing wound on Michael’s cheekbone.

He wants to brush it with his fingers, take his head in his lap and stroke his face for hours and hours, make a texture map of him the same way he’d already made a visual one. He knew every freckle, every acne scar, every crease. He spent an awful lot of time staring at him.

“Helloooo? Earth to Gavin, resident of planet Gay Bitch?” He grunted in frustration, but there was the barest glint of amusement in his eyes as he strode up to his friend and tapped him on the head. “You in there, idiot, or you too busy getting wet because I’m yelling at you?”

“Wot- I’m not wet!” He defended himself against potentially the oddest part of Michael’s accusations, shifting his ass back on the bed a little, the old mattress squeaking under the motion.

“Oh yeah?” And there’s a lilt to his voice there that he hadn’t expected – especially not this early. Especially not _before _a heist. Michael usually saved any potential romping for after he was pumped full of adrenaline and roughed up a little.

Maybe he should go on more distant missions with him in the future.

“Yeh, Micool. Pretty sure you’re the one gettin’ hot and bothered, actually. I was just getting round to putting my shirt on.” He reaches out – bold and unconcerned – and places a hand around the curve of Michael’s ribcage, feels the muscle beneath the skin, the soft layer of fat. He wishes he could take him and lay him down and just _feel _him for hours, work up a detailed record of every single contour, like a medical examiner—

“Well, I wouldn’t be even _interested _in your stinky idiot self if you hadn’t spent have the night trying to finger me in my sleep.” His voice is low, challenging. Everything is a fight to Michael, even still. Even just this, this intimacy, he has to conquer it. He has to make sure he comes out on top. He slinks forward, all even, controlled motion, and slings his knees up on the bed until he’s straddling Gavin’s hips.

Gavin’s willing to give up his ground, willing to withdraw his troops, let Michael take over. It’s so early and the world around them feels so soft, and he doesn’t think he minds. The weight in his muscles, sleepy and warm, agrees with him. Michael can conquer whatever he bloody well wants to.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to start nothing.” He drawls, and his accent his thick, his voice sounding almost congested.

Michael’s fingers curl in the mess of hair at the back of his head, pull him so his chin’s in the air, throat exposed. Vulnerable. Easy. “Yeah? Well, you sure as hell weren’t trying to finish anything either.”

Gavin looks good like that, Michael thinks. The bob of his Adam’s apple beneath the long curve of a scar that ran the diameter of his throat. He’s always liked that one, ever since Gavin got it. It’s… intimate. He can still picture the blood spilling forward, but in his fantasies he’s the one taking it, he’s the one carving _his _boy open, taking what _belongs to him. _

To call him possessive might be an understatement. For him, the haze is gone already. He is just warm, hungry clarity and a deep unspoken frustration, a frustration he hasn’t been able to get over no matter how hard he tries. It’s been years, but he’s still so fucking restless.

At least Gavin is restless with him. He’s always moving, always fucking squirming, and Michael appreciates it just as much as it annoys him to death. Even now, with his throat bared, Gavin is moving. His heart thumping beneath his skin, his bare chest rising and falling, his toes curling as he shifts impatiently beneath Michael’s touch.

“You’re so squirmy.” Michael muses, any earlier malice gone. Now that he’s got him here, under himself… Well, he knows he’s his, doesn’t he? He can’t stay frustrated over nothing when he’s being so fucking _good _for him. Shit.

“Can’t help it, luv.” Gavin responds, his voice strained just slightly from the angle. Michael traces a finger down the side of Gavin’s throat, plays it off the curve of his collarbones, down into the thick fuzz on his chest. He’s so fucking hairy – hairy enough for the both of them – and Michael loves it. It’s exciting in a way, intensely masculine.

He traces his fingers along Gavin’s pectoral muscles – scrawny thing, but strong enough to wedge a screwdriver up through someone’s brain. The thought makes him sigh, his thumb gracing over one of his nipples.

Gavin gasps and all the muscles that Michael’s holding tense up, his chest tightening, his Adam’s apple rising as he swallows. “We got a heist to get to.” Michael muses, although he makes no attempt to dismount his best friend’s lap.

“Yeh.” Gavin agrees, doing his best to nod despite the tension of Michael’s hand in his hair. The other man yanks, hard, and he sees stars for a moment, a stupid little gasp escaping his lips.

Michael laughs at him.

“You’re a slut, Gavver.” He says it now and he’s said it before, and maybe a year or two ago that would’ve bothered him so much he would’ve flown into a manic rage, would’ve had to fight against memories he didn’t want. But now it was easier. Now he wasn’t a slut because of some unthinkable thing he might’ve done. Now it was just a toothless word, one that meant nothing more than _possession _and _belonging. _

He belonged to Michael in ways that neither of them really knew the extent of. He breathed for him. He lived every day waiting to wrap his arms around him, hear his nasty little laugh, watch him move. Michael was a living, breathing work of art and Gavin wanted to capture him in slow motion, to draw him out into thousands and thousands of frames, pick apart each minute tic and movement.

He was completely, completely lovestruck, even if he still couldn’t say it. Even if that stupid little phrase got caught in both their throats. It was apparent enough on his face, anyway. The wet shine in his eyes when he saw Michael, the way his whole face lit up the moment he realized he was there.

He was getting lost in thought again, he realized, as soon as he felt the hard curve of Michael’s teeth against the side of his throat. “Mm. Thought we had a heist.” He offers, a throaty groan escaping him. His hands work over Michael’s sides, down his back, one hand dipping down to cup his ass through his jeans.

“We do.” Michael growled, and then he was wrapping himself around Gavin – all strong arms and intent. He kissed at his neck, felt Gavin’s pulse thrumming below his lips before he pushed forward, dug his teeth in _hard. _He didn’t let up when the other man let out a startled squawk, only biting down harder, shoving him backwards against the bed as he started to thrash. For someone who begged to get bruised up sometimes, Gavin sure was whiny about it.

He pulled back after a long, hungry moment, Gavin’s flesh caught between his teeth until he finally released it. He sat back, admired his work. The side of his neck was now adorned with a fresh set of teeth-indents, red and angry, his skin slick with Michael’s spit. Should be enough to leave a mark, certainly.

“Jesus _Christ, _Micool!” Gavin shouted, breathless. His neck fucking _hurt, _all the way deep into the muscles, but his cock was as stiff as an iron rod in his shorts.

“What?” He asked, all innocence and a cheeky grin as he looked down at him. He’d messed Gavin’s hair up a lot more. All he wanted to do was leave a mark.

“Why’d you sodding bite me?” He didn’t sound actually upset, but he did do a little pout.

“Because we can’t fuck right now, so I figured I’d make a note to do it later.” He slid his hand up the curve of Gavin’s throat, pressed his thumb into the fresh contusion enough to make Gavin wince. His other hand came down between them, wrapped eagerly around his erection. He gave it a nasty little squeeze, stroking him through the fabric.

That was all he offered him before he got to his feet, leaving Gavin sprawled out on the bed, not looking much different from how he did in the aftermath of a mugging.

“Christ alive, Michael…” Gavin gasped, like he couldn’t catch his breath. Whatever morning haze had been trapped here had been fully dispelled. Now he was just a jumble of shaky, turned-on nerve endings and disconnected thoughts. He supposed he wouldn’t be needing any coffee.

“Get dressed.” Michael added, curtly, as he moved towards the en-suite bathroom, leaving Gavin horny and confused and wanting.

But Michael was right. The heist needed to get started soon, and Gavin hadn’t had time to try taming his hair down, and now he was going to be doing _business _with an enormous bite mark on the side of his neck and he had to get rid of his erection…

“You’re a sodding bastard, Michael Jones.” He minged at him, going about selecting a shirt for the day. The weather was not going to permit a scarf, and he certainly hadn’t packed one.

“That’s what they call me!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and kudos are wildly appreciated!


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